


Winter

by CedarTheBarefoot



Series: Up On the Homestead [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Caning, Consensual Kink, Consensual Sex, Deep Throating, Dom Arthur Morgan, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Homestead AU, M/M, Manhandling, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rope Bondage, Sub John Marston, Subspace, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 18:53:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18531073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CedarTheBarefoot/pseuds/CedarTheBarefoot
Summary: Winter has come. The cellar is full. The cider is hot. The animals are doing well. The way to town is cut off by snow. John and Arthur only have each other to keep warm. Not that they exactly mind.





	Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Winter is here. (Sorry for the GoT reference. I thought it was funny.)
> 
> Just another wholesome fic in a series where John and Arthur have a homestead and are living out their years peacefully together. No explanations as to how or why. They just are. And there always seems to be a significant amount of sex going on...
> 
> This is the last installment in this series that will revolve specifically around a season. Not to worry though, there’ll be more installments as ideas come to me! I might just change the series title to “Up On the Homestead” or something like that to reflect this. I’ve actually got two new installments in the works! Some of them inspired by your comments! *hint hint wink wink*
> 
> Thanks to all who’ve been reading, and to those who’ve left kudos and or comments. You are a part of what makes writing fun!

The height of the winter had come. It had been snowing a little on and off with freezing rain for weeks. Finally it was cold enough for snow to come. Real snow. Over two feet. Very near three. Things were certainly as cold as Lenora, Graham Collings’ wife, had predicted. By the end of the week, it was possible that it would be four feet. The way down the mountain to town was not safe to travel. The homestead for all intents and purposes was cut off from the rest of the world. At least for a month or so. 

Most trees were bare of leaves. Needles and foliage remained, holding branches full of snow aloft. The birds had moved on, fleeing the cold and leaving no song in their absence. The garden was buried. Luckily before the end of Autumn they’d managed to cover it with hay in preparation for next season. 

There was a clear path shoveled from the house to the woodshed and to the barn. Arthur was taking advantage of the last of the evening light to shovel in order to get ahead of the morning work. 

Bundled tightly in his heavy blue coat, he heaved a sigh, taking off his hat. He shook off the snow that had accumulated and placed it back on his head. Feeling a bit of whimsy, Arthur took a few handfuls of snow and packed it into a ball. 

He gave a whistle and threw it up in the air. Seemingly from out of nowhere, a bluetick hound leapt after it and snapped up the snowball in his mouth. The dog landed in a heap in the tall snow and emerged, loudly chewing and wagging his tail.

Chuckling, Arthur picked up the shovel, “Never get tired of that, do ya Beau?” The dog snarfed in response and buried his nose in the snow, digging. 

“Silly mutt,” Arthur shook his head and left the shovel on the porch. He went over to the woodshed and started gathering. Cradling six or seven split blocks at a time, he made three trips, leaving them on the porch. It was best to gather as much as possible in one go. It lowered the frequency of trips into the cold to abate said cold. 

It was also wise to do it _before_ bedding the animals down. By the time that chore was finished at the end of a freezing night, Arthur found it difficult to haul wood. He usually had help. Tonight, however, he didn’t mind so much.

Trudging over to the barn, Arthur pulled open the door. Beau yipped and raced inside, narrowly avoiding bowling the man over. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a tad excited!” He griped good-naturedly.

Curious long faces with eyes sleepy from the cold picked up, grazing on hay. Arthur went to the open end and looked out into the field. A couple of horses were still out there. He gave a whistle, and they began to come in. One remained, defiantly huffing in the snow. Big, dark and with an inky black mane. 

Arthur scowled, “Benandonner, get yer ass in here,” The beast gave a short whinny, flicking his tail. Beau was currently hopping around the horse, tongue lolling out of his mouth. Rolling his eyes, Arthur started pulling the door shut, “Have fun freezing to death!” 

That got the horse. He quickly came trudging through the snow and entered the barn with an ornery snort with Beau on his heels. Arthur laughed and brushed the snow off of the grey rug on the horse’s back, “Every time. Can’t say I’ll be sorry to see you go in the Spring.” That was the time of sale that Graham and Arthur had agreed upon. Give the grown colt one last winter with his mother.

Benandonner went around the man to nose at Artemis, his mother. She regarded him with a still gaze, all dry and munching on hay since she’d stayed under cover in the barn. 

Arthur took the time the dry off and brush down every horse before putting them in their stalls. He replaced and hung up the damp rugs. The place was warm with hay and the air of all of the animals moved in for the worst of the winter. 

The cow, Amelia, was softly snoring already in her stall. She had stopped producing milk a week or two ago. So that was it, at least until she calved in the Spring. Courtesy of one of Graham’s bulls. It had been their arrangement the past three or four years. Having a dairy cow around was a luxury. Amelia was also a gentle creature to have around, and made for a good companion for a nap in the fields. 

Her calf, whom John merely called Asshole, on the other hand was a huffing, puffing _asshole_ who was put in his own stall. He was about nine months old, and slowly growing to a decent size. He was such a bother that his own mother didn’t even seem to like him. He’d certainly tipped over the milk bucket plenty of times. Not to mention knocked Arthur and John off their feet enough. He’d probably be sold or slaughtered in the Spring before Amelia dropped her next calf. With the haunches he had on him, Arthur knew that John would be more so inclined to slaughter him.

Still, he laid out fresh hay in their stalls. Afterward, he checked on the chickens. Their winter coop was cozy enough, and the fat birds were already clucking in their sleep. Some of the chicks they’d decided to keep were peeping, snuggled up in the down nests. They looked real peaceful and silly with their fuzzy little feathers. Arthur left some feed out for them, deciding to leave the raking for tomorrow. 

He’d been outside long enough. 

“C’mon, Beau, let’s go inside.” 

The bluetick hound looked over his shoulder. He’d been licking Benandonner’s nose that was extended from his stall. Arthur smiled. The two had an unexpected and strange friendship with one another. He’d half expected the horse to stomp the dog to death the first time he’d let Beau near him. But lo and behold, he was still alive.

The dog trotted after Arthur before he closed the barn door. With his tail wagging, he led the way back towards the house. Once there, Arthur opened the door and leaned in, “Go sit, Beau.” 

Obediently, the dog sat down on the cushion by the burning woodstove beside the kitchen bench. Satisfied, Arthur stomped off his boots and began moving the firewood inside. They kept a rack near the door to reduce the amount of wet, dirty boot prints tracking through the house. 

Once the blocks were stacked, Arthur shut the door.

Things were finally silent and still. The only noise in the house was the crackling of the fire. Arthur hadn’t realized how noisy the falling snow and whistling wind had been. One by one he took off his outside garments. Hung up his heavy coat, knitted scarf, and hat. Stepped carefully out of his boots. Slipped his braces off of his shoulders to let them hang down from his hips.

It was very cozy inside the house. The fireplace and woodstove burned at all hours, filling the place with inviting warmth. There were blankets hanging over the windows to keep out any cold that might attempt to seep in. The cellar was full, and there was no want for hunger. Things were well.

Arthur took the pan keeping warm on the stove and scraped some of its contents into a bowl. Dried beef made soft with water with beet greens and dried thyme. Nothing fancy. Arthur wasn’t much of a cook. 

He put the bowl on the floor in front of Beau, “There you go, Beau.” At the verbal okay, the dog settled down and licked excitedly at his dinner. Patting his head, Arthur moved a pot of cider onto the stove to heat up. 

Glancing at the crate of finely chopped wood beside the stove, he decided to go about chopping more. The small hatchet was impeccable for such work. After adding some wood to the stove, he swept up the mess he’d made, picking wood chips from his socks.

Looking about for anything else to busy himself with, he went to the fireplace. Carefully, he stepped around the mattress where a pile of pillows, blankets and the soft elkskin lay on the floor, and added a couple of blocks to the fire. Stacking neatly as he possibly could, the flames just barely licked at his fingers. 

When he was satisfied, he stepped back around the elk skin and sunk into the armchair. Heaving a sigh, he rolled his shoulders, and heard some pops. Things were quiet. Welcoming. Peaceful. 

He picked up his knitting and went to counting his loops. Beau snorted near the kitchen bench, licking his chops. His nails clicked on the floor, heading towards Arthur.

“Go lay down, Beau.” He grunted, not looking up.

The dog paused, and seemed to sigh. But he obediently went back to his cushion near the woodstove. He’d get attention later. The quiet returned, only broken by the crackling of the fireplace. 

Arthur knit and purled ten rounds before he drawled, “Yer awful quiet, boy.” 

There was a soft intake of breath. 

Finally, Arthur looked up and settled his eyes on the naked form in front of the fireplace. He was settled back on his heels on the mattress on top of the elk skin fur. His hands were bound behind him. A sheen of sweat glistened in the firelight along the plains of his muscles. His belly quivered with a sudden gasp of breath. His lips were reddened with kisses. An anticipating tongue slipped out to wet them, leaving them shiny and inviting. 

A black cloth was tied about his head, effectively blindfolding him. 

“I don’t think you’ve ever been this quiet without something in your mouth,” Arthur chuckled, continuing to knit, “I’m impressed.”

John swallowed audibly. His breath coming harder at the praise. His prick had had plenty of time to soften and calm down while Arthur had been out finishing the evening chores. But it had begun to fill out again the moment he came back in the door. He was fully hard now.

The sight of him, all bound and compliant like that…it was stirring up Arthur’s blood. He was pretty sure he’d dropped a stitch in his growing distraction. His trousers were getting uncomfortably tight. After unraveling a row, he counted his loops again.

Meanwhile, the cider on the stove started boiling, filling the room with the smell of apples and bourbon. 

“Excuse me,” Arthur said, putting aside his knitting as he stood up. A very soft sound, almost like a muffled whine left John. His cock quivered, as he swallowed again. 

Smiling, Arthur carefully poured himself a mug of the cider. There was a place near the next town to the East that had an orchard. The brewery there did just fine, especially in the colder months. Drink could bring cheer to the lonely. Drink could bring cheer to the content. 

For now, Arthur was grateful for the warmth. He set the pot aside to keep warm. Before he went back to his armchair, he stroked a hand along Beau’s head. The dog was noticeably pleased but stayed where he had been told to. 

Arthur didn’t need him traipsing about during what he had planned. 

John’s cock was jutting out, reddened with anticipation. He was noticeably panting now, making Arthur want to lick a trail from his navel to his collarbone. Bite him, suck him, hurt him. Force him to make some noise. 

Sitting in his chair, he sipped the hot cider. Breathed the spices. Savored the sweetness and warmth. With his free hand he began to unbutton his flies. John held his breath for a moment, listening, a shudder slithering down his spine.

“Come here,” Arthur murmured, releasing his cock from his long pants.

A small gasp left John. Licking his lips, he rose up to his knees and crawled towards the chair. It wasn’t far, and the transition from the mattress to the rugged floor wasn’t too different in height. Moving carefully, he arched his back a little to keep his balance. When he arrived between his lover’s knees, Arthur lovingly caressed the scarred side of his face.

John let out a soft sigh, leaning into Arthur’s touch. 

A thumb dragged over his lower lip, dipping inside. Panting, John opened his mouth, obeying the unspoken order. His tongue brushed against the pad of his thumb. Then the digit hooked around his jaw and pulled him closer. 

Another shudder went down his spine as his mouth was guided to Arthur’s cock. It was rigid, and wet with precome. He licked at the velvety head, tasting him. 

Arthur hummed in appreciation, setting down the cider to pet his fingers carefully through John’s hair. Watching him suckle and lick. Pressing him down a bit occasionally. He knew that this task was difficult since his lover didn’t have the use of his hands. He was also under no delusion that he could easily hurt John in a way he didn’t want to based off of the large size of his manhood. So in this, he was gentle. At least at first. 

John breathed deep in preparation, feeling a hand tighten in his hair. He was pressed down, Arthur’s cock slipping deeper into his mouth. Relaxing the back of his throat, he let him in. His nose very nearly pressed against the dark blond hair at Arthur’s groin.

The both of them groaned. John was slowly pulled back off of his cock by the hair. He smiled when John gagged softly, breathing hard. He pulled the long, black hair hard enough to draw his head back. He took in the bruises he’d already left around his throat and leaned in to worry them with teeth and tongue. 

John whimpered in response. 

“Shoulders must be gettin’ stiff. Want me to untie you?” Arthur murmured.

John nodded breathlessly, his hands instinctively flexing and tugging slightly at his bonds. He wanted so badly to touch, to feel, to stroke, to lose himself further.

A rumble sounded low in Arthur’s chest, “I ‘spose I can do that, on account of how good you’re doing.”

John was glad that he was pulled forward, and made to bury his face in Arthur’s lap. It enabled him to hide how he blushed and preened. Arthur had used a simple collapsing knot, knowing that if John had been of a mind that he could tug on one loop to free himself. Just in case. He hadn’t ever had to yet, but cautious old habits die hard.

Once one hand was freed, John wrapped it around Arthur’s prick and got to stroking and sucking without abandon. The rope was still looped around the other wrist and he absolutely did not care. The elk skin, having slipped from the mattress, was soft under him. The hand in his hair wasn’t forceful. The pleased groans that he pulled from his lover had him trembling.

A familiar sound came to his ears. A soft clattering of wood. His muscles tensed up and he gasped when he heard it cut warningly through the air a couple of times. 

Arthur had picked up his cane. A long, very thin rod of flexible wood that he had carved himself. John’s arse had already been acquainted with it earlier this evening. There were a fair few stripes across his cheeks and his upper thighs to show for it. The damn thing stung like a son of a bitch. Always did. But still, his cock twitched at the sound. Desperate. Neglected. 

His whole body jerked as he felt the thin cane snap sharply against his arse. At a downward angle this time, crisscrossing the stripes already on his left cheek. He gasped against his lover’s groin.

A whimper left him at the next whip of the cane, crossing his right cheek this time. Taking a deep, suffering breath, he whimpered, still licking at Arthur’s cock. The blows didn’t sting as much now. His whole bottom already felt warm, the snap of the cane was almost bearable. But still so overwhelming. 

His head felt hazy with heat and arousal. He always went someplace when they did this. John couldn’t describe it, especially when he felt like he’d float away if he didn’t hang onto something.

He yelped when the cane snapped underneath, just where his thighs met the curve of his arse. It hurt more there. Always did. His chest felt tight. He cried out, struggling not to move when Arthur hit him there again. 

“ _Arthurrr_!” he sobbed, turning his head to bury his face against his lover’s thigh. His whole body was shaking now. His face was wet with sweat and tears under the blindfold. 

“Shhh, yer okay, boy.” Came the low, drawled response. John shivered as he was pulled up into Arthur’s lap. He rested his face against the curve of his lover’s shoulder, panting. A hand soothed over his stinging bottom. For the most part, the touch was gentle. But Arthur rubbed a little harder, nearly pinching in places where John was sure he had bruised up significantly. 

Another hand slipped between them, and worked their cocks together. Moaning, John rocked his hips, striving for friction. 

“Arthur,” he breathed. 

“C’mere,” Arthur returned, still stroking firmly.

Picking up his head, his mouth was caught in a firm, desperate kiss. Teeth grazed over his lower lip, and a tongue soothed the sting. “Wanna make love to ya,” Arthur moaned, “M’gonna ride you.”

John’s mouth went dry. The empty loop was tightened around his free wrist so that his hands were bound in front of him. A shocked whine left him as he was lifted bodily from the chair and gently laid out on the elk skin, replaced to the top of the mattress. The fire’s warmth settled on his body again. His arse stung, but it was welcome.

He heard a rustle of clothing and a lid twisting off of a familiar pot. 

“Did ya think I was only teasin’ you earlier?” Arthur drawled, “Making you sit there, listenin’ to me fuck myself. Wish you could see what you look like, boy. Prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on.”

John was unable to respond as the knot between his wrists was caught. His hands were held down over his head as Arthur’s slick hand closed around his prick. 

“Oh god,”

“Yeah. You been quiet long enough, Johnny boy,” Arthur teased, using a nickname that he only used to egg his lover on. “Let me hear you.” 

“Arthur, oh m-fuck! _Fuck_ , fuck, fuck,” John arched his back, his mouth dropping open. A tight, slick heat slid down his cock. Torturously slow. He hauled in a breath and strived to keep still. 

Arthur breathed deeply, taking in the very thick cock. It always left him on tenterhooks, hardly able to breathe with its girth.

John released a choked, stuttering groan as Arthur finally seated himself. There was a feeling of in between-ness. The haze in his mind thickening, being here but not. Feeling like he could float away. He cried out, feeling acutely how his lover rolled his hips. How he picked up a tender but firm pace.

It was an agonizing build. But was John a sight to behold. A mess. A lovely mess. Beautiful sounds were wrenched from him. Whimpers. Cries. Sweet little whines. 

Sweat sheened between them. The blindfold was damp, his long hair was laid out wildly against the fur. His lean arms flexed. The muscles in his belly tightened, the trail of dark hair from his chest to his groin looking real inviting. Shining with precome as Arthur worked himself in his fist till he was dripping. John was trying very hard to keep himself from thrusting up. Stopping himself from adopting a pace other than the one that had been set. 

Feeling close to completion, Arthur leaned down to cup his face and kiss him. “I love you,” 

“I love y-you,” John answered, the sounds leaving him growing short and higher in pitch. Signaling his imminent release. His bound hands looped around Arthur’s shoulders and held on.

“I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you,” Arthur repeated himself. Kept on repeating himself into his lover’s ear until they were both coming off with hoarse, elongated cries.

Arthur might have blacked out for a moment or two. But when he came around, it was with heaving breath, and a very blissed out John Marston underneath him. 

Quietly, he panted. Every so often his muscles would tense up with leftover waves from the intensity of his release. From the love. From the pleasure. From the pain. 

Arthur studied him for a moment, and gently slid off the blindfold. Softly he kissed his eyelids. Kissed his cheeks, his scars, his chin, his lips. “You did so good, darlin’. M’so proud of you.” He whispered, relishing the soft moan in response.

Very carefully, he lifted himself off of the softening arousal beneath him. John shuddered, but was otherwise unable to move. His eyes were closed, and he was barely aware of his surroundings. 

Arthur next untied his bonds and tossed the rope to one side. He took some time to rub at his lover’s wrists, working feeling back into his limp arms. 

Next, he stood on shaky legs and got himself over to the woodstove. While scraping the last of the warm beef and beet greens onto a plate, Beau’s tail thumped against his cushion. “Ain’t for you,” Arthur chuckled.

After that, he poured out another mug of hot cider and brought his findings back to the fireplace. He drank first from the water placed nearby and knelt down on the mattress. 

“C’mon, darlin’. C’mere, I’ve gotcha.” He drawled, taking John into his arms amongst the pillows and blankets. His lover went pliantly. Drawing a quilt and the fur over them, Arthur picked up the water. “Drink.” He told him. 

John did so with no trouble. When he was told to eat, he did that too. Chewing the beef and greens slowly. Licking tiredly at Arthur’s fingers as he fed him. They ate and drank together, gathering their strength again. 

Eventually, John opened his eyes, and gazed blearily up at Arthur. Quietly, he admired him until his lucidness was noticed. 

“Hey. You all right, John?” 

“Better than that,” he replied softly, smiling. 

“How you feelin’?” 

“My ass is sore, but then I kinda asked for that, didn’t I?” The sleepy smile grew into a sleepy, smug smirk. John was always so rottenly pleased with himself after getting his arse beat. Arthur adored it. 

“Need anything?” Arthur asked, gently combing the tangles from his lover’s hair with his fingers.

John snorted and closed his eyes, “For you to be a better cook. Beef’s a bit bland for my taste.”

Barking out a laugh, Arthur drawled, “Cheeky.” He leaned down to kiss him. John welcomed him with a soft sigh. It was a tender joining. They were together. Safe. Thriving. And still so very in love, even after all the years past. 

“Merry Christmas, John.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment and/or kudos! 
> 
> Lovely to hear from you!


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